Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
by SkyeScribble
Summary: Four years after Catcher in the Rye, Phoebe's parents divorce and she runs away to live with her brother in a neighboring city. Phoebe recounts in her unique narrative voice, similar yet distinct from her brother, her struggle to continue moving forward in a world that misinterprets and misguides her at every turn.


**P**hoebe **W**eatherfield **C**aulfield

by SkyeScribble

1

By now you've heard all about my brother, a hell of a lot more than I'd ever care to tell you. Big shot author, world renowned for his brilliant work of "fiction" and "imagination". I'll tell you now; Holden ranks up with the best of them in writers who shamelessly worked off the screwed up childhoods to trick people into feeling bad for them. Whatever, it saves me some time explaining.

My name is Phoebe, in case that wasn't clear. I'm pretty sure it was, though. Anyway, don't ask me again while I'm trying to speak; this is my story now and I'll tell it how I damn well please. So it was around September when everything really started to go to crap for me. Holden's always saying that it all started back when I was a kid and all, when we lost Allie and all, when he lived with us and our parents would still talk and all and all and all, but he thinks too much into things. I think he's a bit conceited. See it was in September when Dad moved out.

I didn't believe it really when I heard them fighting. They would fight all the time then, in these loud whispers that you could hear if you stuck your head up to the door crack. They should have at least fought in the balcony or something if they didn't want me to hear. Dad would talk in his big, bad stern voice to Mom, like he was so scary, so tough. It never worked on Holden, DB, Allie, me, I don't know why he thought it would work on Mom.

Then he really said it. He told her he wanted to move out. Really? I always thought that was only the sort of thing you heard on those really dumb radio dramas, not in real life. And not in _my _real life, for Christ's sake. Mom told him go ahead, and so he did. I don't know where it was that he went. Mom wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't tell me. She just said he went but that he was going to come back pretty soon. She was lying to herself more than she was lying to me.

All that week Mom wouldn't really talk to me. I just stayed in my room, writing or drawing in my notebook, or reorganizing my closet for the one hundredth time. Whenever I got really board from just drawing and writing, I would go and ask Mom what I should do. And every single time, she'd tell me to walk right back and reorganize my goddamn closet. She'd just stare out the window, or stir some bowl of soup, and tell me to go back and reorganize my closet. I swear she either thought I was some kind of idiot or seriously messing with me.

The only time I got out of the house was during school. I used to like school a lot, back around when Holden lived with us. That was almost four years ago. Secondary school sucks, I'll tell you. All the girls are like pretty little goldfish, swimming around in circles with their makeup and their swirly dresses, and the boys were basically giant you-know-whats with legs. I sort of wished Mom would send me to one of those real fancy schools like that Molloy capital C Catholic school, but I never felt like asking her. And who wants to go to school to be brainwashed capital C Catholic anyway? I don't.

I was walking home from school and all, right down the sidewalk. I liked to walk right in the middle of the sidewalk and have everyone walk around me. They'd walk around me or they'd walk right into me, but either way it was their fault. It's not like they couldn't see me walking right down the center of the goddamn sidewalk.

Then I did see someone. It was my dad, waiting outside our house in his big brown overcoat, just a bit singed at a corner, I could see. He liked to wear these ugly brown overcoats. Holden and I tried to steal all of his ugly brown overcoats once and burn them in the fireplace while he was out in a meeting. In the end Holden stole them all back and put them away. I would have burned them myself, I really would have, if Holden wasn't so much bigger than me. That Holden, he was a real guy. And not like a giant you-know-what kind of guy either, I mean like a real guy. He's my brother and all so I can't get all sappy, but I would if he wasn't my brother, is what I mean. If he was just my friend, then I might tell you how I think he's smart and funny, in his dumbass little hat, his red hunting hat, that he only wears around me. About how he's a real kind of guy who you can talk to about real kinds of stuff, not just stupid hair and makeup and stupid actresses and their stupid tiny dogs. I would tell you that, except that he's my brother and all, and he'd get pissed if I acted all sappy.

I sort of stopped at first when I saw Dad. I didn't know if I should walk up. I wondered why he was hanging outside like a bum when he could just go in. Mom was home.

Then he saw me. He looked real surprised, as if he'd forgotten that I go to school at the same time every day, and he walked up to me. He has piece of paper in his hand, and said my name as he ran up to me. Like _he_ cared.

"Phoebe! Goodness, I'm glad it's you." He didn't give me a hug or anything, just stood there all awkward. I looked at him weird, not saying anything, but it's like he didn't notice. "Here sweetie, I really need you to run upstairs and give this to your mother. Will you do that for me please? Sweetie? Just go up and give this to her?"

"Why don't you just do it?"

"Please dear, just go up and give this to her. I need to leave very soon for the train, and I can't trust the bellboy to give it to her without... anyway dear. It really is good to see you."

"Alright, Dad."

"Alright?" he said, sounding delighted and relieved. That's how he sounded, anyway.

"Sure. Just go catch your meeting train."

"Okay, sweetie," he finally gave me a one armed hug as he pressed the folded paper into my hands. I stood there still until he pulled away. "I should go. Be sure to give it right to your mother. Be sure."

"Right," I said as he tread off down the sidewalk. It wasn't long before he was lost in the crowd. "Anything for you, Dad."

I did start walking in to the building, but I stopped in the lobby. My hands only shaking a tiny bit, I carefully unfolded the note my dad had written.

Dear Miss Evangeline Caulfield Juniper,

It gives me no pleasure to remind you and your daughter are currently occupying are under my possession legally, and that you must either vacate in less than seven (7) days or I will be forced to involve the law. You have been left with sufficient funds to return home to your mother's house as well as meals for the immediate future while you gather your personal belongings from my home. I hope this letter finds you well and that this matter can be solved swiftly and without unnecessary discomfort.

Signed, Datrean Holden Caulfield Senior

I noticed I was breathing real hard, and I couldn't stop. I just couldn't believe him. I couldn't believe this was happening. He was kicking us out of our own house, and with a goddamn business letter.

I stormed up to our home, or rather my father's home, and found my mother to be, in fact, nowhere to be found. I slammed the note down on a side table and ran into my room, steaming. I wanted to throw things around, kick over china cabinets, but I didn't. I wouldn't. I wouldn't be the moody teenager here.

He didn't want me around? Fine. I knew someone who would always take me.

I dumped the contents of my backpack onto my bed, then began shoving clothes into it. I wasn't thinking right, I should have packed a whole suitcase, at least. Probably more. I ripped open drawers, throwing a notebook, pens, gloves, a scarf, into the bag.

I hauled the backpack up and marched into my parents room, to my father's dresser. I reached behind the mirror and grabbed his stack of emergency cash and stuffed it in my jeans pocket. Then I went into the kitchen and grabbed whatever I could find into the bag, not so much looking as feeling my way around. Then I had the brief clarity to grab my toothbrush and hairbrush from the bathroom, and left, slamming the front door shut in what I wished was a resounding thud; I caught my foot in the door though as I walked out. It sort of ruined the moment.

2

I was walking for a long time before I remembered which direction I was supposed to be going.

I was almost at that corner with the two hotels and the coffee shop at the bottom, you know, where Holden and I met up last time. Where that sad old man watched us drink our coffee from across the street, and he thought we couldn't see him but we could. And we walked by the old man and he pretended to look at the sidewalk, and I said hi and all, and he didn't look up. I was almost there before I remembered to turn around and head for the station.

I tried to think of what I'd tell the ticket guy when I got to the subway. I was still only fourteen, not really old enough to travel around, I guess. I didn't agree though. I mean, I had money, I knew where I was going and had someone to meet when I got there, I didn't see what the big problem was.

The subway station was really crowded and way too dark; I swear it was way darker than it was usually. That was the first time I'd ever taken the subway alone. I was careful to stand up as tall as I could when I walked up to pay for my ride and tried to speak in a super deep woman's voice, all smooth and cool and all. The ticket guy didn't even look at me really as I handed him the money. I guess he was tired or something. He was probably tired a lot. He wore his hair over his eyes, even though he worked down underground where you didn't see much sun to shield your eyes from anyway. I don't know why a guy would choose to have long hair, having it whip around and get in your face and all. I thought about how quiet he was, and I wondered what it must be like to work underground, too tired to even look at the cute girls when you sell them tickets. I never knew a guy who was too tired to give me a look when I bought something from them. Guys say they don't care, but you know how I feel about guys.

For all that was happening, all the excitement of being away from home, going to see Holden, the power of being alone that I felt run through my veins in the most clichéd way possible, I couldn't stop thinking about the ticket guy, with his hair all in his face. It was like he was a dead thing. See you can tell when something is a dead thing or when something is just still. Like plants are still, and nuns are still, but when it's a dead thing it's got a deeper stillness to it, more like an emptiness. That's what the man was. He was empty. I felt like I should have at least said hi to him or something, at least so I could see what color his eyes were. It bothers me when I meet someone and I can't even tell what color their eyes are. Like I should have gotten closer and checked, just to know.

The subway arrived outside the city, not far from the town of Algoe where Holden was holding up. I mean where he was living. I need to be more careful of puns. I did my best to look nonchalant, just following the traffic off of the subway and out into the street.

I decided to walk for the park pretty close to the station, just to slow down for a bit, figure things out. I sat down on a park bench, all bundled in my coat, and pulled off my backpack. I was getting really hungry all of a sudden. I riffled through all the clothes and picked out a few wrapped muffins, a small jar of peanut butter, bread, and two slightly overripe limes. I also noticed that I had forgotten to grab any pants, only shirts, spare socks, and a scarf.

I sat for a bit, just looking at my provisions. I wondered if I was making the right decision briefly, but I put the thought from my head as I wrenched the cap off the peanut butter and stuck my finger in. It was a bit cold, but still really good.

I thought about how Mom would have a heart attack if she saw me eating from the peanut butter with my finger like this. I wondered how she was doing, if she even had noticed I'd left. It wasn't quite dinner time yet, so it's likely she hasn't even checked to see if I was gone. Then again, I had left quite a huge mess. If they did decide to look for me though, I had a hell of a head start on them.

God it was cold out. I wrapped the scarf around my neck against the wind. It really shouldn't have been so cold out; I mean it was only September. I swear it was colder that September than any goddamn September before or since. There wasn't that many people out, I guess because it was so goddamn cold and all. I was used to being alone though, so it didn't bother me or anything.

Anyway I finished the peanut butter and left the jar on the bench. I figured someone would come to pick it up sooner or later. As I walked away I imagined some little kid coming up and finding the jar, and she'd wash all the peanut butter out from it and keep the jar on her bedside table or something. Then in the summer she'd use the jar to catch butterflies or something superficial like that. I'd like that. It made me smile against the harsh wind in my face, thinking about that. It had been really a long time since I'd caught butterflies. I thought about turning around and getting the jar, but I figured the little girl would need it more than I.

It was beginning to get dark as I walked through the small town west of New York, some no name place even more no name than Agloe; I'd never really been there before to be honest, but we'd driven through on the way to Holden's before, so I felt like I could find my way.

Though as the weak Sun was swallowed by Agloe to the west, I realized that I wouldn't make it to Holden's before nightfall. I wanted to call Holden, but I remembered that his phone had been broken for a while. I tried anyway, though. I just sat and let it ring for a really long time, hoping that he was just asleep and would pick up the phone any second, that he'd run right out to come and get me so we could at least stay the night in this dirt town together.

But he didn't. I thought about trying my luck in some hoe dunk motel where they'd hopefully not call the police on me or whatever for being on the run.

On the run. I thought about that. I never really planned to run away, or even thought about it. The thing is, if it was something I'd thought about I would still be sitting at home on my writing desk or organizing my goddamn closet. Instead, I was on the run. So it's all for the better, I guess.

I couldn't really decide what motel would be best, which one had a proper balance of ratty enough to give me a room, but nice enough that I wouldn't be killed, raped, and sold off in my sleep (hopefully in that order). And since I couldn't decide, I had nothing to do but keep walking.

You wouldn't believe how dark a ratty ass town like that could get if you just kept walking. It occurred to me that I was indeed making a decision, probably the worse decision in fact, but choosing to do nothing but continue to walk. I just really didn't want to stop, is all. If I stopped and something bad happened, then it would definitely be my fault for making the wrong decision. But if I just kept walking, then if something bad happens to me it's just a tragedy; no one's fault. I don't know if I told you this before, but that's the only difference between a mistake and a tragedy. And trust me, tragedy is always better.

It was a long time that I was walking in the wind and the pitch dark when my foot caught on the curb and I fell onto the pavement. The ground was slippery and all, and I couldn't see the ground so it was hard to catch myself or anything. I landed on my hands and sort of skid over the pavement with my knee. My shin hurt like a madman, and I had no idea why. I was walking at like two miles an hour and all, and I still managed to scrape up my goddamn shin and skin my palms.

I saw an alley in the faint starlight about a block ahead, and I decided that I would continue avoiding making a decision there. It felt like the smart thing to do, just hold up awhile in some place, get my bearings, then find my way. Just for a while.

I hobbled over to the alley, holding my thin jacket close to my skin against the wind. The wind was gone the second I stepped in the alley, and I relished it for a second before sitting down on the concrete beside a building. I sat on some flattened box so that my pants wouldn't get wet, because that clearly was highest on my list of priorities.

I think I closed my eyes just for a bit, listening to the wind beside me and resting my head on the brick wall. I had my arms curled around my legs, and touched my numb fingers to my face. Neither could feel anything.

It was so dark, and so quiet. I guess I really started to miss Holden and all. It's just it would have been a lot nicer if he was just there with me. I bet he would have remembered to bring a big, fat overcoat for me to wear, and he'd wrap me up in it and rub my hands together in the dark. He would have brought it all the way from Agloe, because he'd just know that I'd forget my own. In the dark I'd ask him what time it was, and he'd tell me that it was sometime between sunset and sunrise, and I'd sort of punch him on the shoulder and call him a loon. Holden doesn't believe that time should be measured in numbers. He says it's not an accurate analogy or something. Sometimes I really do think that Holden's a loon. He got that way more when he stopped being so depressed and all. I don't get what he's got to be so damn loony about all the time anyway. I used to be able to understand it, when I was just little. Catching butterflies and all. I was really out of it, and I thought about how Holden would probably like the girl with my peanut butter jar. I bet she's got a real blue dress, and she lives in some villa outside the city with the trees and the grass. And her mom and dad, I bet they are real close, real young, artist types and all, and the three of us laid in the grass in the shade. Holden held my hand as we walked around the villa, with a million rooms that all belonged to peanut butter girl. She had a room for her dolls and a room that was just for reading with big fluffy chairs, and about a million more bedrooms that all had big, giant windows and not a single writing desk or messy closet at all.

3

My backpack was gone when I woke up in the morning. I was surprised, but I couldn't bring myself to feel upset. All my clothes and my breakfast and my notebook had been stolen, and really, I _knew_ that it was my fault, I just didn't feel like it was. It felt like a freak storm, just something that happens and you get over it. There was nothing I could do about it anyway, so no point in getting all worked up.

I was really hungry and really sore from sleeping on the ground, so I heaved myself up and out of the alley.

The sun wasn't so much out as it was suspiciously eyeing that tiny city from the peaks of the New York skyline. I ignored its accusatory glare and started looking around for a café or something to grab some breakfast. I finally found one after around a thousand blocks, but it was a really ratty looking café. Its sign read "Il Fuego del Citta" which is incorrect on so many linguistic and harmonic levels that it hurt my head just reading it. I went in though; I was too damn tired to care.

The café was packed and absolutely disgusting on the inside. I wasn't feeling too hot, walking around for so long, so I sat down at a table. The tables they had, they were insane. The whole thing appeared to be made of a giant gear, like from an old war machine except that you could tell it was fake. I couldn't get over how inefficient it must have been to make a table out of a giant freaking gear. How many regular, wooden tables could someone have made with the work it took to smelt and grind down this giant slab of metal, get it all good and rusted, then affix it to the floor? More than I care to think about.

I thought about what Holden and Peanut Butter girl would think about these ludicrous tables. She'd probably think them really scary and all, with all the pointy bits that went down by your belly. She'd probably want us to order her a hot chocolate, and I'd tell them to drop some whip cream and sprinkles on the top for her. Then we'd leave this creepy place all together and sit on the curb like a bunch of bums. Except we'd be warm because we'd be laughing and all, and Holden would have brought my coat. Also my _bag_ wouldn't have gotten stolen.

Some woman walked over to me, and leaned on the table, speaking in a soft whisper, like she was talking to a small animal. "Sweetie, you're going to need to order something pretty soon, if you want to sit for a while. You want to order something sweetie?" I knew she was talking to me, but I didn't look up at her. I hated when people called me sweetie like that, like I was just a little girl.

I got up to get in the line, swaying and all, still tired and sore. I could see all the people looking at me funny, I guess I _must_ have looked pretty funny. Some dirty old kid, with my tangled hair and my scarf and my jacket that was way too thin. I pretended not to notice, or maybe I didn't notice for a while, I don't really remember.

When I got up to order my coffee and all I saw this pretty young guy, short scruff on his face, sort of watching me from the bar. I thought I was just imagining it or something, maybe he was spacing out or watching some hot chick behind me. I shifted in my feet, and saw his eyes trail me, then I shifted back and they trailed back.

I was getting sort of freaked out. I mean, he wasn't a bad looking guy, and I like to imagine myself the kind of kid who doesn't notice when guys check you out, but he was really sort of freaking me out. His hand hovered over a writing pad, blank, like how his eyes hovered over me, like I was a blank thing too.

To my disdain all the seats in the whole café were taken by the time I'd got my coffee, and I didn't want to go back into the cold, so I had to sit at the bar next to that young writer guy. I assumed he was a writer because he had a writing pad and all. Writers are weird, but at least you can tell what they're all about usually. I don't think I would have sat down at all if he wasn't a writer.

He greeted me when I sat down next to him, all personable and all. Great. I just sat with my coffee, wishing I had _my_ writing pad so I wouldn't have to just sit around all awkward. People get real suspicious when you come into a café or whatever and don't have anything to do, especially on a school day. But he started to write anyway, while I was sitting there with my coffee, which was way too hot to drink, and appallingly watery anyway. I guess I sort of kept stealing glances at his pen as he wrote, how it glided and flipped and skid across the paper, bleeding a trail of ink like a trapped, wounded bird.

I guess he noticed that I was stealing glances at his paper and all, because he put it down. "Do you need something?" he said, finally looking at me right in the face.

"No. I don't need anything."

"I seriously doubt that." Who did that guy think he was? Acting all smart and all, snarky. I glared at him a bit. He smiled, ever so slightly, and then something changed in his eyes. "Are you Phoebe Caulfield?"

I was taken aback. "Um, what?"

"Phoebe Josephine Caulfield, from The Catcher in the Rye! I thought you looked like her. I know all about Holden, he's a great man." Great, I thought. He's one of those crazy book guys.

"I'm not 'from the Catcher in the Rye', sir. I'm from New York. And my name's not Josephine, it's Weatherfield. I probably should be out anyway. I need to meet some girls down at the park before-"

"Oh you can't leave now; I'd love to have a minute to hear your perspective of your brother, and your brother's book maybe. Do you think Holden's latching on to innocence was the result of the idealization of his own childhoo, or a naïve desire to prevent change?"

"I don't have an opinion." I started to stand up. "I'll tell Holden you said hi Mr.."

"Mr. Ellina. Fredrick Ellina. What are you doing here near Algoe? Are you going to see Holden? If you are, I'd be more than happy to ferry you the rest of the way back to-"

"Please Mr. Ellina," I was getting really worked up. I hated it when people would ask me about Holden, what he was like as a kid, what his stupid hunting hat represents. I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper? "I need to go. I don't need a ride."

He sort of looked me over. "Well, if there's anything I can do for you, anything you want,"

"I want your notebook."

"Excuse me?"

"Mine was stolen. If you give me it, I'll tell Holden that I met you and put in a good word for you and all, so you can talk to him later."

I could practically hear his defunct brain turning the idea around in his head. I could tell, it was tantalizing. "Fine, miss Caulfield. You work me like dough." I swear I about threw up in my mouth.

He looked really disappointed as he handed me his writing notebook, penning in his phone and name on the back page. I can't say I felt bad for not living up to this socially awkward fanboy's imagining of me. He held on to the notebook for a lot longer than he needed to, I practically had to rip it out of his hands. He was looking at my face in this weird way. Exactly the same way he was staring at the blank piece of paper.

I was walking down the street way faster than I needed to, head bearing down against the blistering wind. I held the notebook against my chest at first, but the longer it was in my hands the less I could stand to hold it. I felt like it was burning me in a way, sticky and slimey. I didn't want to hold on to it anymore, much less write in it.

So I threw it in a trash can on the side of the road. I saw this pale glint of light from inside the bin, and I wouldn't have looked long at it normally, but it sort of caught my eye. My tongue caught in my throat when I saw that it was my goddamn peanut butter jar.

I don't know why it hit me so hard, but it did. I reached in to pick it out of the bin, and I looked it over in my hand. Sure enough, it was my jar, all the way on the other side of town, still lined on the inside with soggy peanut butter, just like how I'd left it. It was an ugly, pale thing, that peanut butter jar. I let go of it and let it shatter on the sidewalk at my feet. It was only slightly less ugly like that, all broken and shimmering across the concrete.

I felt really bad all of a sudden, sick right at the bottom of my gut, and kind of pissed off. Like, I knew that the little girl in the blue dress wasn't real and all. I mean, I _knew _it. But I still felt like she was real for a while. She was real in all the ways that mattered, just like how Holden was still around in all the ways that mattered. But now she wasn't. I felt like something had died inside of me, and now it was rotting at the pit of my stomach. Then I really did throw up, right all over the glass shards and all. I spat the bile and acid out, and walked as carefully as I could manage around it.

All I could think about was that goddamn jar. I tried to think about which direction I was going, about Holden, about the creepy writer guy, but I couldn't. And it wasn't even a special jar, not particularly interesting at all. No interesting history or anything, all it had was peanut butter girl and her butterflies. Except there never were any butterflies. And there never was any girl.

I couldn't stop walking. I was getting more and more lost, more and more freezing, but I couldn't stop. I needed to be moving. I needed to be breathing. Just breathing. Though even that was proving difficult.

I found a weird abandoned shop, probably somewhere in Agloe. I didn't know for sure. It was dark and all, but it seemed a lot warmer. I don't mean actually warmer, but warmer in the way that matters. Like curl up in a ball and wrap your arms around your knees warm.

Once I'd climbed in the window I found it to be an old bookstore. It was filled with bookshelves, all empty, that lined the walls and loomed like sleeping pillars. Everything was sleepy, it was nice. Not dead, just sleepy. Though I'd visited Agloe with Holden before, I'd never been to this bookstore. I could imagine how it was though before it was abandoned, no problem, right in my head. But I didn't want to imagine. I just wanted to be. Just being is hard enough without making other things be as well.

I never knew the way to Holden's house. For all I know I could have taken the wrong subway from the start. That's the truth.

It's just that once you get moving it's impossible to stop. You feel like if you stop for too long, your mind starts to ping around ideas and poisonous thoughts, and you'll never be able to get back up. So you keep walking, even if you don't know where you're going. Because sooner or later you'll get somewhere, you're bound to, and by that time you know where you've been and it's like you knew it all the time. I thought about how no matter what you do, what decisions you do or don't make, you're going to end up somewhere. And what does it matter where it is as long as it's somewhere?

My legs were hurting really bad. I couldn't walk anymore. I could barely stand, really. So I sat, working hard just to be, here in this somewhere.

I was tired. Hungry. Filthy. More so than I ever was in my life. I don't know how long I sat there in the gloom, the still, sleepy silence, wrapped in a blanket of darkness that was beginning to feel more like home than anything else. You know what you are when you're sitting still. What you are is you're sitting still. And there's no one to say that you are anything different. Not Phoebe Josephine, or even Phoebe Weatherfield. Just stillness.

Stillness and a mind.

I imagined that Holden would just find me here in the bookstore. He'd follow my trail, like some sort of crazy detective from the radio, the jar, the writer, my backpack discarded on the side of the street by the thief, and he'd track me all the way back to this tiny abandoned bookstore. I'd probably be asleep by the time he catches up to me, and he'd wake me up by calling my name. He'd come over and all, and instead of picking me up or anything, he'd just sit down next to me. That's the kind of guy Holden is; the kind who'd sit down with you when you're feeling not so hot instead of trying to make you act better for their own damn sake. He'd look at me for a long time, but never say anything. He wouldn't be disappointed, or angry, or expect me to say anything. He'd just sit all still and all, next to me. He'd pull out a jar of peanut butter and I'd laugh just a little bit at him. But then I'd stick my finger in and eat the whole jar of peanut butter with him, not talking, just looking up at him every so often. He eats like a slob, Holden. Finally I'm warm again on the inside. Not quite so empty. It takes a while, but pretty soon I'm talking to him again, and I tell him about the crazy writer who's notebook I practically stole, and the sad ticket salesman with the hair over his eyes, about the girl in the blue dress. I didn't tell him that the girl in the blue dress only lived in my head though.

Because in the end, it didn't matter. Whether the girl in the blue dress had a life in flesh and blood like I did or not didn't change who she was to me. Because, to tell you the truth, we all live in our heads. The stuff that happens outside of it has to come in for it to exist for us anyway. Things that happen to start out in your head are no less real and important than those that were born outside. What's real to you is real, and that's what matters. That's what Holden taught me anyway. All those years ago back in this bookstore. And I've never looked back.


End file.
